


In the Aftermath

by wildestranger



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinky stopwatch porn with some pining and schmoop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> For rivier who pouted until I wrote something. This is all your fault.

It's an ordinary morning, three weeks after Jack came back. Ianto is washing the cafetiere and thinking about buying gingerbread syrup for Christmas. Tosh would like that and Owen wouldn't, which seems like reason enough, but Ianto is still undecided on where he stands in relation to flavoured syrups. Coffee should be tasty enough without additions, but sometimes an extra flavour can turn the coffee-related experience into something different and new. And Ianto is a strong believer in expanding the range of coffee-related experiences.

Then Jack strolls by, a coffee mug in hand. The mug is big and blue and has World's Greatest Boss written on it, a gag gift from Owen that Jack was strangely touched by. Nobody wanted to tell him that it was a joke and now Jack drinks from it every day. Carries it around with him every day, and that's why it shouldn't affect Ianto to see him, his sleeves rolled up and his arms bare, the long line of taut muscle visible under Jack's skin as he holds the mug. It should not cause Ianto to lose his breath and thought and the cafetiere in one instant.

Jack's arms, sleeves rolled up. The inside of his elbows exposed for the world to see. Ianto can see Jack's perfect, square fingers putting the mug down and picking up a random piece of cloth from Gwen's desk, wrapping up the material around his fingers, quickly and meticulously, an automated movement that requires no conscious thought but nevertheless leaves Ianto breathless.

He knows his own skin is sensitive there; thinner than the rest of him, and even more milky white than his otherwise pasty Welsh skin. He knows he likes to be touched there, but didn't know it before Jack, before Jack's inquisitive fingers paused in the middle of undressing him, sucking the breath out of Ianto's mouth with one accidental brush of the thumb.

Jack used to make Ianto stand up, hands outstretched in front of him, palms up. He'd roll up Ianto's sleeves and place the stopwatch on the inside of his left elbow, set it ticking to see how long Ianto could hold it up while Jack pulled down his trousers and stroked his cock. Jack standing behind him, his mouth filthy against Ianto's ear, his fingers stretching Ianto open.

They don't do that anymore.

And now Jack is looking at him, distracted by the noise of the cafetiere falling, clearly surprised to have caught Ianto staring.

Ianto looks away and goes to find the dustpan.

: :

Jack is slightly different after his return, and they all notice it. They also know not to bring it up, or ask where he has been, not after the first dropped glass and the way Jack had holed himself in his office with a bottle of brandy, his face frozen in devastation. But even though he doesn't like to be asked, Jack has learned (been taught, Ianto thinks) to ask.

Tosh doesn't always know how to bring up the way she is constantly undermined in discussions with UNIT, but Jack has started to ask about their phrasing and schedule and how long she is made to wait on line. He doesn't make Owen do it (although Owen wants to, since Tosh is clearly his to tease and no posh tossers from the south have the right), but arranges for a conference call where Tosh gets to point out, cheerfully and professionally, how full of shit the Torchwood liaison is. When Jack reports the demotion of the liaison person, the team pools together to buy Tosh the biggest slab of dark chocolate in celebration.

A sensitive Jack is jarring in many ways, but they learn to adapt, and Ianto learns to answer questions about the health (related to their coffee, food, and alcohol-consumption) of his team as well as his own, and come up with schemes for better strategies of workplace happiness and efficiency. But after the incident with the cafetiere, there's a difference in the way Jack asks his questions. And Ianto starts to notice all the ways his answers leave him exposed.

They don't get enough sleep, any of them, and discussions about insomnia and sleeping pills and camomile tea are common among the team. It's perfectly acceptable for Jack to inquire after Ianto's nightmares, and whether he wakes up in a panic attack. But while Ianto knows not to say much, his inability to stop staring at the bare skin on Jack's throat says more about why he wakes up sweaty and shaking than he would like. And while Jack doesn't comment (this new Jack is also tactful, at times), he smiles, and makes sure Ianto knows that he knows.

Ianto also knows that he is failing at being professional, almost failing at doing his job, and that this obsession with Jack's arms and chest and belly and throat is ridiculous. He had decided, long before Jack came back, that there would be nothing, must be nothing, if Jack ever returned. The idea of anything happening makes him sick, and he doesn't, cannot want it anymore.

But the hair at Ianto's nape stands out as Jack passes and his palms grow sweaty with every word Jack speaks. He cannot look and he cannot look away. He overdoses on coffee and doesn't sleep until he is tired enough to pass out, and still he wakes up with the smell of Jack's coat in his mouth. Every wall that he passes, falls against, rubs against, is Jack's body pressed flush against him, solid and unyielding and almost keeping him in place. Every change in the air is Jack's warm breath against his belly.

Ianto asks for sick leave, and goes out to get trashed and fucked. He ends up throwing up in a gutter outside his house, and falls asleep on the staircase. The carpet is soft and smells like autumn, like rain and leaves and Jack's coat.

It doesn't help.

: :

After Ianto has been skulking at home for two days, Jack shows up at his door.

"Are you sick?"

The look on Jack's face shows that he doesn't expect this to be the case. Still, he offers Ianto the opportunity to lie.

"I'm fine." Ianto is aware that he looks like shit. He hasn't washed himself in 38 hours and there might be vomit on his shirt. "Is there an emergency?"

Jack's smile is bright and dangerous. Somehow, without touching Ianto, he pushes his way inside. "I'll make some coffee while you shower."

When Ianto doesn't move, the smile fades. "We should talk."

Ianto finds that that's reason enough to leave the room.

The hot water doesn't run out, but he stands under the showerhead too long anyway, waiting. He doesn't mind if his skin goes pruney. And he doesn't want coffee, the thought of it (_blackhotstrongstrongstrongJack_) makes him nauseous. However, he knows that if he stays too long, Jack will come looking for him.

Not quite yet, but soon. Ianto rinses his hair one more time.

The coffee smells just as he had feared, and Ianto stops just outside the kitchen. The thing is, though, Jack doesn't offer him a cup, or ask if he wants milk, or say anything about the steaming espresso maker sitting dark and malevolent on the counter. Jack looks up, puts down the teatowel he was using the wipe the cooker, and takes two steps to reach Ianto. His mouth is a straight line, not even a smidgeon of a smirk, and it should mean something but Ianto loses his breath and his ability to think because Jack's arms are pulling him close and curving around him.

"Tell me."

Jack's voice is low and his body is impossibly warm and solid, nudging Ianto against the wall and keeping him in place by the hips, his sharp bones pressing harmlessly into hard muscle.

Ianto opens his mouth and tastes Jack.


End file.
